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i.
Reid had—mistakenly—believed that the fighting was over between himself and McCullum after the Skal epidemic was put to rest.
The Ekon had attacked Reid from the shadows. The fight that ensued took most of his attention. The Ekon was young and fierce, so he calls forth both blood and shadow to subdue it. He finishes the skirmish with a bite, drinking the potent blood to regain some energy.
It’s only then that he realizes the extent of his distraction. He’s jolted forward roughly by an unnoticed presence. The impact hits him hard from behind, a solid force—warm and human. He hits a brick wall, jaw dragging along the ragged stone.
“Bloody leech,” McCullum spits out. Rage pulls his words tight and sharp. “And I the fool for believing you might be different. Couldn’t resist, could you? Or has this been what you’ve been doing all along? Playing at the friendly doctor by day, unleashing the murderous monster by night?”
Reid presses both hands against the wall, pushing back so that he propels himself out of the way of the next attack. McCullum’s sword strikes the wall with a scream of complaining metal.
“McCullum,” he says, shifting away from another attack. “Calm down. This isn't what you think.”
“Shut your mouth,” McCullum says, swinging for him again.
Reid ducks inwards this time, dodging the blade with inhuman speed and striking for McCullum’s hand. The sword dislodges from his grip, flying free. The sharp blade catches his shoulder--leaving a shallow wound--but it skids otherwise harmlessly across the alley cobblestones.
“Leech tricks won’t work forever,” McCullum warns, raising his fists.
“McCullum” Reid tries again to reason with him. “It was an Ekon, not a human. Be still and listen to reason.”
Reid can see the realization land, McCullum’s eyes flickering to the body on the ground assessingly. He waits for McCullum to subside with a gruff apology—then McCullum launches himself at Reid again.
“It’s a misunderstanding,” Reid growls out as one of McCullum’s thick fists grip into the collar of his coat.
McCullum doesn’t answer, grinning wide and fierce as he swings Reid to crash into the wall again.
Reid’s brittle patience cracks. He darts forward, intending to restrain McCullum as quickly as possible. He grips McCullum by wrist and elbow. With his leverage and strength, he tosses McCullum to the ground. The thud of impact is hard enough that Reid almost winces at it. The whistle of air escaping McCullum’s lungs is audible.
McCullum lies there flat on his back, gasping for air. He remains still as his breath catches back up to him. His gaze is fixed on Reid and his chest heaves with each breath.
Reid stands over him, watching. He is certain McCullum recognizes his error but continued the fight for the sheer joy of it—as such, Reid has little sympathy for his current position.
“You sure don’t hold back, eh, Reid?”
Reid shakes his head. “And you don’t give me much choice, do you, McCullum? Are you hurt?”
“Only my dignity.”
Against his better judgment, Reid huffs a laugh and offers a hand to help McCullum off the ground. McCullum’s palm presses against his, hot with pulsing blood.
McCullum doesn’t immediately let go of Reid once he’s on his feet. Reid could almost count each heartbeat that passes with their skin still touching—one, two, three.
Eventually, McCullum lets go. When he speaks again, his words are hoarse and formal, “Well, good night to you. Till next time.”
With that, he turns on a heel, collects his sword, and walks away at a brisk clip. Reid watches him disappear around a corner, wondering what happened.
ii.
This time, Reid sees it coming before it happens.
McCullum has the look of a man spoiling for an argument. His jaw sticks out obstinately and he keeps flicking annoyed glances at Reid as they walk together. Even his utilitarian boots seem to pound the stone of the street with more force than usual.
For his part, Reid has no idea what has him so irritable. He had—rather politely—not brought up the skirmish between them the last time they met. Even so, he can feel the tension coming off McCullum in waves.
Finally, Reid asks, “Something troubling you this evening?”
“What perception, Doctor,” McCullum says, sarcasm obvious.
“I don’t suppose you’re upset about our misunderstanding?”
The look McCullum gives him is surprised before it hardens into his typical glower. He says, “I don’t know why you think that.”
“True enough. If anyone should have reason to be aggravated—it would be me,” he pauses to choose his next words carefully. “Even if you didn’t actually manage to do me harm.”
McCullum scoffs angrily, “Had it been a real fight, you’d not have bested me so easily.”
Reid shrugs, noncommittal, “The past would suggest otherwise.”
McCullum turns to him. His posture is challenging. “Shall we put your theory to the test?”
“I don’t particularly feel the need to prove my strength to you,” Reid says. He can’t help but add, “Nor do I think it would soothe your wounded pride.”
McCullum raises his eyebrows. He answers, “If you’re so certain, there’s no harm in giving it a go.”
As if to prove his point, McCullum strips off his topcoat and drops it to the ground. His scarf follows soon after. He holds out his arms to the sides, still armed with sword and crossbow, but ignores both and raises both hands in a brawling stance.
“That’s it, Reid. Show me what you’ve got.”
Reid considers him, knowing he should not encourage this—but finds himself pulling at the sleeves of his own topcoat. McCullum’s grin turns sharp.
A part of Reid he wasn’t aware still existed rises in his throat. He said he didn’t feel like he had to prove himself, but it turns out to be a lie. Although always driven to achieve, he was never competitive for the sake of it. He had made it to the top of his class and field fueled by curiosity and a drive to help others. But he feels competitive now. Now, he wants to subdue McCullum as quickly and efficiently as possible.
They’ve fought in the past, but today is not quite like any other occurrence.
Tonight, McCullum is merely an ordinary man without his sword and crossbow. Without the protective layer of his coat—and with only bare fists—McCullum looks vulnerable. Even the most trained, brutal vampire hunter is a mortal of flesh and blood when stripped of the tools that make him effective.
Surely, McCullum knows this is a losing proposition from the start.
“Come at me,” McCullum demands, breaking Reid’s train of thought.
Reid obliges. He bulls forward with an aim to land a blow on McCullum’s midsection—which seems an appropriate target for a ridiculous spar. But he forgot how fast McCullum is for a mortal.
McCullum dodges, anticipating the move, and rounds back at Reid. He lands a less sporting fist against Reid’s cheekbone.
The blow is glancing but surprises Reid anyway. McCullum looks smug at having made the first strike. Reid growls without intending to. Rather than exchange blows, he grabs at McCullum, capturing him with two firm hands around his arms and dragging him to the ground.
Reid manages to slide his hands up and seize both of McCullum’s wrists, pressing them firmly into the cold ground.
“Is this what you were hoping for?” he asks, sounding a bit strained with the effort of holding McCullum in place.
McCullum thrashes beneath him, body arching up so that they are pressed together from chest to hip. Reid tries to put distance between them while keeping his weight on McCullum’s pinned wrists. It’s an impossible task, McCullum’s straining body following his shamelessly.
Reid clears his throat to say something, though he’s not sure what. He presses again on McCullum’s wrists, likely with bruising force, in an attempt to get his attention.
Instead, McCullum lets out a breathy gasp of air. Reid looks down at the sound, and suddenly he feels that they are too close.
The press of their chests and the look McCullum gives him calls to mind a different circumstance that they might be in with these same positions. The line of thought is dangerous—and his body responds accordingly to the proximity. The sound of McCullum’s gasp echoes in his ears, and he wonders if McCullum might be similarly affected.
Reid is certain that if he is still capable of blushing, he must be.
The embarrassment loosens his fingers. McCullum takes immediate advantage, his hands surging up to grab Reid’s shoulders. Reid doesn’t register how he does it, but he feels a firm pressure on his hip before he's flipped so his back hits the ground. And suddenly, McCullum looms over him, straddled over his hips.
McCullum's lips curl into a smirk. He says, “Strongest leech I've encountered and I can still put you on your back.”
Reid cannot point out the reason for his distraction, so he shakes his head. “Congratulations, Geoffrey. Now perhaps you'll do me a favor and move off of me?”
Once again, he reminds himself that it is natural for the body to respond to such things. But chastizes himself immediately after—he has looked at the sharp cut of McCullum’s jaw before and thought him handsome. He cannot blame his body alone. The truth is that it is both his body and his mind that conspire against him at this point.
McCullum remains perched over him. More accurately, on him. He rests heavily in the cradle of his hips.
He’s grinning again, more smugly than before.
Then he looks up, face hardening.
“Ekon,” McCullum spits and is on his feet in a moment. As Reid shifts, he can see there’s a lurking figure sneaking in the shadows toward them.
With a common enemy in sight, McCullum changes entirely. His posture shifts, becoming every inch the deadly vampire hunter that Reid knows he must be. By apparent instinct, McCullum shifts to stand ahead of Reid, giving Reid the necessary time to get to his own feet.
The posture is protective. More than that, it is not lost on Reid how McCullum put his back towards Reid without hesitation—an unmistakable show of trust.
They work in tandem to dispatch the Ekon. McCullum leads with an attack before giving room for Reid to swoop in and finish the fight with sharp claws. It feels almost anticlimactic after their own scuffle. Then each heads their own way home without another mention of the sparring session.
That night he wonders if McCullum needs this sort of excuse to be close to anyone—or if it’s just him that requires such layers of self-deception.
iii.
The third time, Reid is beginning to think he understands.
He has a theory he would like to test. He waits until they enter an entirely secluded alley. He reaches out—as if it was a normal, simple thing—and presses the flat of his hand against McCullum’s chest so that it rests perfectly over the sternum. Two of his fingers fall under McCullum’s scarf, and he feels the shocking warmth of skin beneath.
Under the touch, McCullum goes rigid except for the shiver that runs through his skin—and the notable increase in the speed of each tick of his heart.
Without saying anything, Reid locks his eyes on McCullum’s, which are wide with no little disbelief. He lets his hand linger long enough that it communicates a sort of intent in and of itself. McCullum’s expression shifts to heated anticipation. Only then, Reid gives the slightest push with the pads of his fingers.
McCullum bounces backward with the light touch, coming back to Reid immediately, drawn like the opposing pole of a magnet. He shoves artlessly at Reid, shoulder against shoulder, and brings his hands up—but not to a fighting stance. Instead, his fingers are curled hesitantly. With deliberation, he grips Reid’s forearm with one and wraps the other around his bicep.
Neither speaks, and Reid thinks that he should say something.
McCullum squeezes his hands slowly, and Reid holds his tongue. There’s a language to this kind of rough touch. Words have failed them every time in the past, but there’s honesty in this.
Likely more honesty than he would get in words out of McCullum.
This time, he doesn’t overpower McCullum with purposeful efficiency. Instead, he jostles McCullum back, equally slow and deliberate. He isn’t trying to gain the advantage, and McCullum does not either. McCullum matches his energy. They wrestle like schoolboys and it’s unlike any fight they’ve had previously.
Now, they push against each other without aim or goal. The only sound in the small space is their boots scraping over the ground and their panting breaths and grunts, growing louder with exertion.
McCullum manages to get behind him, one of Reid’s arms twisted behind his back. Breath hot against Reid’s ear, ragged and hungry. The push and pull of their bodies, muscle testing muscle, brings every one of his senses to attention. Reid holds firm, giving McCullum his back as a firm line to press against. And it is then he knows that McCullum is not unaffected by their situation.
“Shall I yield?” Reid asks, lightly.
McCullum releases his hold, still silent.
Reid feels buoyant, lifted up by having his guess validated. He turns to McCullum, smiling despite himself. He means to ask McCullum a question—Is this how you are with all of your friends? Or Does this mean we understand each other now?
The would-be words are lost because McCullum’s mouth is suddenly on his own.
The kiss—if it can even be called that—feels more like a fight than their wrestling had. McCullum crashes his lips over Reid with harsh force. Reid startles at it, mouth opening slightly in shock. McCullum presses forward immediately, tracing his tongue along Reid’s lip. Then, most shockingly, he presses the very tip of his tongue to one of Reid’s pointed fangs and makes an unidentifiable sound that falls somewhere between a moan and a sigh.
Belatedly, Reid realizes he should be responding in some way. As soon as he has the thought, McCullum throws himself backward just as suddenly.
McCullum presses the heel of his hand to his own mouth as if it had betrayed him.
It has been an age since Reid last kissed anyone, and his lips sting from this unexpected onslaught. He finds that he, too, touches his mouth with his forefingers in a mirroring of McCullum’s gesture.
McCullum looks at him like he’s ready to run. Before he can, Reid reaches out, hand landing at the juncture of McCullum’s neck and shoulder. McCullum stills under the touch, but his eyes still look wild. Reid can feel the warmth of him beneath his collar and scarf, he shifts his hand until he finds it—pressing his fingers across the tense tendon of McCullum’s neck lightly.
McCullum’s tongue wets his lips. He is still fixed on Reid, still ready to retreat.
Reid presses his luck, stroking McCullum’s neck with his forefinger. It is not unlike the gesture one might use to gentle a horse.
But the moment teeters and tips over.
McCullum takes a step back. Then another. He touches his mouth again, disbelieving.
He nods a farewell to Reid, already starting to walk away.
Reid asks, addressing his receding back, “Another time, hunter?”
McCullum stops, pausing long enough to shift from one foot to the other. He looks back at Reid, his expression so much easier to comprehend than it was a week ago, and nods again.
“Aye,” he agrees.